Hic Sunt Dracones
by Starlight05
Summary: John is the best dragon rider in the entire archipelago, has his sights set on becoming the new Captain, and has won more dragon races than there are weeks in a year. But when a newcomer moves into town, John finds his reputation - not to mention his pride - threatened. Who is this dark-haired, arrogant prat? Dragon rider AU.
1. First Impact

**Part 4 of my series, Experiments in Alternates. This one is D for Dragon riders! As always, though this is part of a series, this can be read without reading the other parts.**

 **I'm posting this much later than I intended, but what started as a single short scene got away from me and continued growing to a startling length, and I didn't want to post anything until I was satisfied with all of it. And then I went back and forth for ages and finally decided to at least post the beginning, which I enjoyed writing even more than I thought I would (and I expected to have tons of fun). Then I was basically like "screw it, let's make this thing multi-chapter." So only four letters of the alphabet and already my AU series is warped. Whatever, it's called experiments for a reason I guess! Anyway, enjoy the first chapter to my was-supposed-to-be-a-one-shot but ended up exploding with a pile of dragon awesomeness. I'll post the rest as soon as I can and probably come back and do some minor edits to this chapter.**

* * *

John woke early one morning, the beginning light of the sunrise streaming through the window, bathing everything in a soft orange and pink glow. He straggled out of bed, yawning and attempting to smooth his tousled blond hair. A scuffling and growling filtered in through the walls from the next room. John rolled his eyes and opened the door to find Baldr crouched there, eyes wide and eager as he stared up at John. The rider smiled widely and reached out to scratch behind the dragon's ear. His red-gold scales felt cool and smooth under John's fingers.

"Ready to go, then?" John asked with a smirk. Baldr gave him a look, as if to say _are you really asking me that?_ Together, dragon and rider headed out the door of their cottage, greeting the brisk morning air as they took to the skies.

Once in flight, John let Baldr take them wherever he wanted, trusting the dragon to not get them into trouble. Baldr was reliable and tough, willing to do whatever John wanted, or to take charge when needed. They made the best team, John thought proudly as he leaned back in the leather saddle, savoring the wind on his face. He smiled at the sensation, running his hand down Bladr's side, feeling his muscles rippling as he pumped his powerful, parchment-like wings. Baldr gave a gurgle, glancing back at his rider with a fond look in his dark eyes.

John swiveled his gaze across the wide expanse before him. The dwellings of his island village on the mountainside were so many spots in the distance, and all around him was ocean and sky. Everything was clear and blue and free. John grinned as Baldr went into a soaring glide, and he spread his arms to catch the thin clouds around them. A sense of serenity of a sort he'd never felt anywhere but here settled over him. It was as if all burdens had been left behind on solid ground.

The skies gave him freedom.

Baldr broke the glide and began gaining altitude again, so John leaned forward and grasped the front of the saddle.

"What do you say," he called. "Want to see what they've got in store today?"

Baldr gave an affirmative hum and tensed slightly as he tilted to the side, John copying him in perfect synchrony. They could read each other so well, understood one another without having to say anything at all. It had taken years of practice, but now the two of them could sense the other's ideas, and fly accordingly. Pushing and pulling and guiding one another, they had mastered a sort of ebb and flow of leadership. John was as important to the flying as Baldr. John often marveled at it in quieter moments, wondering if he could ever have such understanding, such deep connection, with a _human_.

Now, however, he let such thoughts slide away, turning his full focus to flying. Together, dragon and rider soared toward a long expanse of stone pillars, which rose from the ocean depths like grand columns of some ceiling-less council hall of sea kings. Legends gave various accounts of the pillars' origin, from angry ocean vents to supernatural meeting places of ancient otherworldly beings. Not that it mattered to John where they came from; no, all that mattered was the challenge they posed.

Because while the pillars were ever-increasing in height, the uppermost pieces were continually battered by winds, rains, and crashing waves. So that meant that frequently, just often enough to make it exciting for John and Baldr, massive chunks of stone broke free from the tops of the pillars and crashed down into the sea.

So if soaring through the tight maze of rock formations wasn't a challenge enough, there were always gargantuan boulders tumbling down, ready to crush any human and dragon that got in their way.

"Ready?" John cried over the wind whistling through the stones. Baldr didn't reply beyond throwing himself into a hover, and John reached down, clutching his handhold on the saddle.

The pillars looked promising today. The sun was at just the right angle to make it hard to see as its beams bounced off the water's surface, the waves were high thanks to the intense air currents, and John could see dozens of stone pieces teetering on the tops of their pillars, prepared to fall at any moment.

Excellent.

"Come on!" he called, a grin spreading across his face. Baldr shrieked in reply, and then they were off.

Baldr's nimble body dove through the maze, unerringly avoiding collision with the pillars or with the tossing waves. With John's help, the dragon navigated the tight gaps and unpredictable wind currents. They darted through stone arches and over choppy air, under the crest of a particularly tall wave, and then swooped around the first falling rock.

John gave a yell of joy and excitement, adrenaline coursing through him. Baldr dove again, letting loose a shriek of his own, and John grinned.

This was life.

They navigated the maze formed by the pillars differently each time, turning randomly and without thought. And the pillars changed so quickly, usually between five to ten new ones each year and old ones crumbling all the time, that the landscape was never truly the same. Thus the challenge never lessened, and that was the best part to John.

Not to mention this was _his_ realm, and his alone. No other dragon riders came here, too afraid of the stories and rumors, the mortal danger associated with the place. It was John's alone, his domain, his escape.

They were in sight of the end now, still dodging the obstacles as Baldr increased their speed more and more, clearly just as excited as John. The rider bent low over the saddle, bracing himself as he spotted another rock ahead begin its rapid descent toward the ocean.

It was then, out of what seemed to be nowhere, that a dark shape crossed over them, so close that John felt something brush the top of his head. He yelled in shock, and Baldr started in fear, his flight pattern stuttering for a moment.

Just the wrong moment, too. A vicious updraft caught them, and Baldr was tossed to the side, almost into a pillar. He missed it by a hair's breadth, John clinging to the saddle with a vice-like grip. But then the falling rock clipped them, and John cried out again as Baldr let out a screaming sound John had never heard before.

The next thing he knew, he was falling, the wind rushing past his ears. His mind barely had time to comprehend what was happening before he hit the icy water.

The shock and intensity of the impact forced all the breath from his lungs in an instant, and he floundered in the waves, reaching blindly for Baldr. But he felt nothing, and his vision was flickering, and he was sinking...

Silver was the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness. The silver shine of two intelligent eyes looking at him.

* * *

John came back to consciousness slowly, the first thing he heard being a low growl. He opened his eyes, but the only thing he saw was Baldr's wing draped over him. He sat up, lifting the thin membrane-lined appendage, but Baldr shifted protectively around him, growling.

John looked past his dragon and found himself on the top of one of the shorter, newer pillars. They were barely ten meters above the ocean surface; every wave that hit their perch tossed frigid spray over them. Clearly Baldr had pulled him out of the ocean, as his dragon's hide was streaming with rivulets of water.

John shivered and laid a gentle hand on Baldr's side in gratitude, but the dragon didn't acknowledge him, staring straight ahead with his teeth bared. John followed his gaze and saw that they had company on the stone. The pillar wasn't overly wide in diameter, but it was large enough to accommodate a dragon the same size as Baldr. This meant they were evenly matched, at least, John thought as he attempted to reassure himself, watching this newcomer.

The shimmering mass of scales slunk toward them, low to the ground. The dragon's hide was dark purple, so dark it was nearly black at some angles, its body sleek and streamlined, thinner and longer than Baldr. Its eyes flashed warily, deep silver and sparkling with intelligence. John realized they were the eyes he had seen before blacking out and sinking beneath the water's surface. He tensed. This was not a dragon species he was familiar with, so his first thought was that this was an Unfriendly, one of the wild dragons far from human settlements which no one had ever managed to train. They were vicious and much deserving of their name.

Luckily, this couldn't be an Unfriendly, for on top of the dragon sat a rider clad in black and silver, his face obscured by a helmet made in a style John was unfamiliar with. In fact, everything about this man spoke to him being alien to John's village. John tensed slightly, stepping closer to Baldr's side.

The other dragon stopped a few feet from John and Baldr, and the former watching silently as the new rider dismounted.

"You're a risk taker." The voice, a steely, icy baritone, sounded amused in a rather sly way. "Though I would have thought an obviously experienced rider like yourself would not have been so startled by the presence of another dragon in the sky that it resulted in a rather spectacular crash."

John scowled as best he could, despite his chattering teeth. Between the wet plunge minutes ago and the rushing wind, he was freezing. Baldr curled closer, evidently sensing this. "No one else is ever out here," John replied to the other rider, who still hadn't revealed his face.

As if reading John's mind, the other man reached up and slid the helmet off, shaking out a tumbling mass of inky curls. He fixed his gaze on John again, green-gray eyes reflecting teasing amusement even from this distance.

"Riding alone can be dangerous," he smirked.

John glared. "I don't know who you think you are, but you could have nearly killed me and my dragon with your little stunt back there. And you have no right to warn me of anything. You aren't from around here, so you don't get to tell me what is and isn't safe."

The amusement didn't leave the other's countenance. He leaned against his dragon's side, idly stroking its scaly neck with fingers so pale they looked like porcelain. "How do you know I'm not from around here?"

John blinked and hesitated, but not for long. "Because I'm the best dragon rider there is in this archipelago, and I'd know if there was someone flying a dragon like that." He nodded at the argent-eyed creature, who was snarling softly at him.

The mysterious rider's eyebrows raised, that annoying smirk still on his lips. "The best rider," he repeated, his tone making it blatantly clear his skepticism. "We'll have to see about that, won't we?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Is that a challenge?"

"Bravo," the other mocked. "Glad to see you're keeping up."

"Listen mate," John snarled, finished with this game. "I don't know who you are, which means you're trespassing on my village's territory. So I'll give you one chance to go back where you came from before I signal our border guards to deal with you."

He was technically not bluffing; he did have a signal flare in his pack strapped on Baldr, but he assumed it would be next to useless after the dip into the water. The other rider just rolled his eyes, looking almost bored by the threat.

"Please," he muttered. "For someone obviously important in your village's workings you are sadly lacking in information. I live there now."

"You what?" John asked, aghast. Baldr tensed and released puffs of smoke from each nostril. The other dragon did the same, gaze locked threateningly on Baldr.

"You heard me," the other ride replied, laying a placating hand on his steed before things escalated between the two dragons. "I live in your village now. Best get used to it," he smirked again, a definite wicked glint in his ocean-colored eyes. "I have a feeling I'll be throwing you off your game more often from now on."

He made as if to climb back on his dragon, but John wasn't quite ready to let this prat leave. "Oi, hang on," he called.

The taller man paused, an eyebrow raised. "Yes?"

"First you knock me off my dragon, then you don't even bother to help get me out of danger. I should at least know your name." He glared, Baldr hissing in assent.

"Please," the other scoffed. "I didn't actually touch you, let alone knock you off. And considering the wind speeds and rate at which the boulder was falling, you would have collided with it even without my presence startling you."

John scowled. "Yeah? How would you even know that? And for that matter, how do you know I have an important role in the village?"

"I know much more than that," he smirked. "I also know you're the best rider in your village, having won over fifty - no, fifty-five - races in the past few years since you've been competing. I know you have your sights set on becoming the new Captain of the Riders, but are concerned you won't be appointed for years. I know without the adrenaline and flying you feel nothing is worth anything in your village. And I know that you've been hiding an injury from your friends for months out of fear you will have to stop flying. Even your family doesn't know. Your brother suspects but he is too busy dealing with his recent breakup to take the time to worry about you." His smirk widened, probably at John's slack jaw. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

He swung back onto his own saddle, replaced his helmet on his head, and turned the dragon about. As the wings stretched out, the rider glanced back over his shoulder.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. I look forward to startling you again."

He took off, soaring up above the tops of the pillars and winging away toward the village. John stared after him, agape. It was only once Baldr had nudged him several times that he shook himself out of the vision of that wicked smirk and turned to his dragon.

Baldr was bleeding, he realized in horror. A long stream of shockingly bright blood was oozing out of a gash in one of his hind legs.

"Oh no," John murmured, dropping to his knees and examining the wound. It must have been inflicted by the falling rock, he supposed. Baldr was shaking slightly, which worried John. They would have to get back home; he didn't have adequate supplies to treat this out here.

"Come on, mate," John said, leaping back onto Baldr's back. "Let's get you fixed up. And don't worry. That arrogant sod isn't going to get the better of us a second time, that I promise you."

Baldr gave an assenting grumble, his determination practically emanating off him as he spread his wings and launched himself into the air. It was good to have a teammate, John thought.

Especially against a prat like that Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 **Huzzah for geologically-improbably rock formations! ;)**

 **Quick note: This is *heavily* inspired by the How to Train Your Dragon films, but isn't set in Berk, just somewhere in the same universe. No Hiccup or Toothless here, sorry! Also the dragons are named after various mythological figures from not just Norse but also Greek and Roman - except Molly's dragon, who is named after a character I love from the Shannara Chronicles tv show.**

 **Also in my head, Sherlock's dragon is the color of The Purple Shirt of Sex.  
**


	2. A Bit of a Rivalry

**Look at me, getting another chapter out so quickly! I'm surprised at myself... I can't make any promises to even me when the next chapter will be posted, because until this semester is over I'll have sadly little time to work on anything other than things I get graded for. *sad puppy face***

* * *

John and Baldr arrived back at the village just as most people were beginning to go about their daily business. John ignored people's calls and greetings, opting to just urge Baldr through the crowd to their cottage. Once inside, he scrambled through his belongings until he found bandages and ointment, then carefully cleaned the wound in his dragon's leg. It wasn't deep, but John still hated that it had happened at all. While John worked, Baldr stayed still and quiet, avoiding John's gaze, apparently having noticed his rider's ire and not wanting to upset him further.

"Hey," he murmured as he set down the leftover bandages once he'd finished, stepping around to stand next to Baldr's head. The dragon looked down, expression full of shame. "Hey," John repeated. "It's not your fault. I'm not mad at you. I'm just upset this happened."

Baldr glanced up, looking reassured but still far too sad for John's liking. John understood; they had rarely had a crash like this in all their years of flying together, and this was their first crash at the pillars. So the young man stepped forward and pressed his forehead to the top of Baldr's head, closing his eyes. Baldr hesitated, then nuzzled closer and let John hug him around the neck.

"You're my best friend, mate," John murmured. "No one knows me like you."

Baldr emitted a purring sound. John pulled back and smiled at him. "Come on," he turned toward the door. "I've got some plotting to do."

He headed to the cottage next to his, where an emerald and bronze-scaled dragon greeted them at the door. John smiled and let her nuzzle his hand. "Hello, lovely," he greeted. Her eyes regarded him with a warm and fond look for a few moments, then she and Baldr immediately flapped off a few yards, playfully gamboling together in the grass.

"Hey John," a young woman's voice called from by the cottage door.

John looked over and grinned. "Hey Molly."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, flicking her long hair, which had several small braids on one side, over her shoulder. "What happened to Baldr?"

John hesitated, wondering where to start. Ever since leaving the pillars, questions had been swirling about in his mind. Who was this Sherlock Holmes? Had he really moved here? If so, why? What had he been doing at the pillars? Could he be trusted? A stranger coming to their village was not at all a common occurrence.

"It's a long story," he finally admitted.

She raised an eyebrow. "Come on in, then."

He did, allowed her to serve him a bit of food, and told the story of what had happened. She listened closely, the only person on the island who ever seemed to want to do so. When he finished, he slammed down his cup of water. "I swear," he said, irritated by the memory of Sherlock's maddening smirk. "If that guy shows up again, he won't know what hit him. I'll show him who's the better flyer."

Molly frowned. "He sounds a bit dangerous. I mean, flying so low right above you, in the pillars of all places? Are you sure you want to risk challenging him?"

"Molly, I'm the best dragon rider on the island, and he knocked me and Baldr into the ocean, then acted all smug about it. I can't let that go."

Molly looked amused now. "Oh, I see. It's not just Baldr's leg that got hurt. It's also your pride."

He flushed. "Listen. You help train the new recruits. Want to use those skills for something else, help me get ready for the next dragon races?"

She grinned. The two of them had known one another since they were children, and he knew she enjoyed smug people as much as he did. That is, not at all. So he was utterly unsurprised when a familiar glint came into her brown eyes, and she vowed, "we'll take that arrogant bloke down. He doesn't have any idea who he's dealing with."

* * *

 _Two weeks later..._

The day of the races had arrived, and that morning, Sherlock woke to crisp autumn air and bright sunlight. It wasn't too cold or too hot, and there were no storm clouds in sight. No clouds at all, actually. Excellent racing weather.

The entire village was buzzing. Dragon racing was popular throughout many lands, but especially so here it seemed. There was a flurry of gossip about the new family as well, thus Sherlock had had to fend off several curious villagers in the past fortnight. He wasn't exactly what anyone would call social, except with his dragon, Asteria. No one else really understood him as well as she did, not even his family. Asteria was the only one who mattered.

Still, despite making serious attempts to avoid unnecessary socialization, Sherlock had nonetheless caught snatches of talk about a certain dragon rider named John Watson. It hadn't been a difficult leap to deduce that this was the same rider he had met with in the pillars. Apparently the man was a bit of a daredevil, traveling far out across the ocean to other island chains, flying to dangerous sites like the pillars for a thrill.

Not that Sherlock could attach any blame to John for that. The pillars had caught Sherlock's eye as well, almost immediately when he had set out to scope out the village's territories and sea borders. He'd known instantly they were a perfect challenge. What he hadn't counted on while swooping between, under, and around the stone monoliths was for another dragon and rider to materialize without warning, inches from Sherlock. Both he and Asteria had been caught off guard, tumbling through the air and hitting an unfortunate updraft which sent them slamming into the side of a pillar before either managed to recover.

However, in those few moments before the near-collision with John, Sherlock had managed to see the obvious skill with which the other young man had been flying, the easy communication he and his dragon boasted, the confidence and joy at flying through this rather insane obstacle course.

No, Sherlock certainly couldn't blame John for choosing to fly there. While the archipelago had plenty of varying terrains - coves, caves, mountains, and valleys - to explore, he imagined if one grew up here there was only so much to do before it got repetitive. And for someone with the level of ability he had seen in this John, it was no surprise he was so restless and full of wanderlust.

And he was also cocky, Sherlock added. Yes, the man could fly, but he wasn't the only one. Clearly he was far too accustomed to having less-than-exemplary competition and didn't much like it when he wasn't the best by an immensely wide margin. Sherlock hadn't appreciated his arrogance and mildly condescending tone. Yes, Sherlock had technically made him crash, but the pillars weren't John's alone. Anyone had a right to be there; though obviously John was unused to having to share.

Sherlock sighed, still irritated at the memory. John needed a lesson in humility, it seemed, and Sherlock would be more than happy to deliver it.

Oh, he was well aware of the hypocrisy of this, being not at all humble himself, but he didn't much care. After all, he thought as he glanced up, his only friend had been injured during the accident as well.

At the moment, Asteria, in all her shimmering glory, was curled up in her bed above his, sound asleep. Her front limb was still in a splint from the minor fracture caused by their collision with the pillar. She had hidden the injury from Sherlock initially, well into the evening after the incident, but when she gave an uncharacteristic whimper trying to climb into her loft, he'd caught on. Now, two weeks later, it was still healing.

Sherlock wished he knew the wildlife here; back home he would have made some sort of remedy to help the injury, but here the flora (and fauna) was alien and exotic. And he didn't know anyone in town - though this was admittedly by design - who might be able to help.

He sighed. Well, there wasn't much he could do about it at the moment. She didn't need her legs for flying after all, could land easily enough even with the splint, and today was the day of the race. There was no time for meddling with experimental cures. He would never risk her like that, anyway.

Sherlock stood from where he'd been lounging on the bed, climbed up into the loft where her bed of hay lay, and stepped over to her side. He crouched down and trailed a gentle hand across the curved spikes on her spine. "Asteria," he murmured. "Wake up, my friend."

She shifted, blinking her stunning amethyst eyes open. He smiled. "Good morning."

She let out a soft gurgle, nuzzling into his outstretched palm. He smiled at her, a surge of affection welling up in him as he looked at her.

His only friend in the world.

As true as that was, and as grateful as he was for Asteria being in his life, he still - sometimes - wished for human connection too.

Like now, he thought as laughter passed by his cottage door. He glanced outside and caught sight of a trio of dragon riders, their steeds tumbling through the sky above their heads. To his rather unpleasant surprise, he spotted a blond-haired head - John Watson.

That reminded him. He spun back around and faced Asteria, who was wide awake and watching him now, an expectant look glinting in her intelligent eyes.

A wicked grin spread across his face. "Come on, my friend," he said, swinging onto her back. "Let's show that rider what a real competition feels like."

* * *

John walked along with Molly and their friend Greg through the village toward the race's starting line, joking and laughing. Underneath the easygoing countenance, however, a thin layer of tension lurked. He had been training with Molly for two straight weeks, running drills and maneuvers day and night, rain or shine, to prepare for this. He hadn't trained with this intensity since five years ago, before the final test to become an official dragon rider of the small regiment of guards the village possessed.

He also hadn't felt this bloody _nervous_ since then.

 _Come on, John_ , he silently chided, falling a few steps behind the other two. _You're being ridiculous. You've flown in this race dozens of times and can't let that pompous bloke get to you._

He jumped as Molly laid a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" she asked.

He nodded quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied in a voice that revealed the lie in his words.

"Oh, don't worry, John," Greg said. "It'll be fine. That git Sherlock can't possibly have any skill compared to you. You're the Cap, John!"

John chuckled, unable to avoid being reassured when faced with the support of his two friends. "Yeah, yeah," he grinned. The nickname of Cap, or Captain sometimes, had been a long-running one, its inception from years back when John had first begun to prove himself as an amateur rider. Admiration-laced teasing had ensued from the other kids in the village, as well as claims he would be the best Captain of the Riders ever when he got bigger. Now, on the threshold of age twenty-five, and with the current Captain nearly ready to step down, John knew it was just a matter of time before a new Captain was appointed.

He just hoped, irrational as it was, that Sherlock Holmes' presence and apparent skill at flying wouldn't hurt John's chances.

John had seen the other rider infrequently the past fortnight, catching glimpses during breaks in his training sessions. Sherlock and his dragon - whose name John still hadn't caught - were usually soaring across the island, obviously in search of somewhere to explore. John couldn't blame them; the island did have excellent places to fly and investigate, though for John and Baldr they were all of the been-there-done-that variety. Still, the few scattered glimpses John had gotten of the newcomers showed him one thing: Sherlock Holmes could _fly_. His skill seemed to possibly rival John's, and that dragon... the way it moved was mesmerizing, so streamlined and confident, rather like it was controlling the wind movements rather than the other way around. Had John had the chance, he'd have watched them fly all day.

Well, no, maybe he wouldn't have. He'd had to train, after all.

They were nearing the starting point next to the enclosure, and just as they were stepping up to the raised platform, their dragons dove down and landed. Baldr, his leg healed, trotted over and gave John something akin to a reptilian smile. Greg's silver dragon, Evander, gave Baldr a good-natured shove, which was playfully returned. Eretria, Molly's green dragon, caught John's gaze and rolled her eyes.

Molly laughed and stroked her neck. "I know," she murmured in a conspiratorial whisper just loud enough for the others to hear. "Boys."

John started to chuckle, but his mirth died in his throat as Molly's eyes widened, Greg started to turn, and a gust of wind shivered over them all.

John spun around only to come face to face with Sherlock's dragon. Its eyes flashed as they locked onto John's, and he automatically took a step backwards in alarm. Then, correcting himself, he lifted his gaze and looked at Sherlock.

The man was once again in all black leather and silver accents, though his helmet was resting on his lap. He had, just as John suspected, that smirk on his face again, that smirk that evinced a cockiness that dug under John's skin.

Who was this prat to be so smug? All he seemed to do was avoid people and knock other riders into the ocean. He wasn't anything special.

"Ah, John," Sherlock greeted smoothly as his dragon landed on the platform next to Baldr, who promptly stepped away, teeth bared. "Lovely morning for a race, is it not?"

John didn't reply beyond a stiff nod. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Not very sunny yourself, though are you?"

He dismounted and turned to Greg and Molly. "We haven't met. Sherlock Holmes, though from what I've seen of the rumor mill, you have heard of me already." He glanced over at John as he shook the hands of the other two, his eyes knowing, perfectly aware John had been complaining.

"Y-yes, hi," Molly murmured, clearly flustered. John supposed he had neglected to mention to her that underneath the sneering exterior Sherlock was perhaps maybe just a bit handsome. A bit. He shook his head as a pink blush crept up her cheeks as Sherlock smiled - somewhat dismissively - at her.

"Nice to meet you," Greg said, more composed, but evidently a bit unnerved by the stare of Sherlock's dragon, which was fixed on the man and his own silver dragon.

"Ah, yes, of course," Sherlock said quickly, noticing Greg's discomfort. "This is Asteria. Don't worry, she gives that look to everyone. But it's only because she knows she's better."

"Gets that arrogant streak from her rider, does she?" John growled.

Sherlock looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Not a very sportsmanlike tone, John. I'd expected you to be more chivalrous on the day of the race."

But before John had a chance to retort, the horn blew, signaling the riders to take their positions. The platform was long, filled with the other riders, who'd arrived apparently without John noticing. Altogether, the dragon-and-rider teams competing were a dozen. Well, thirteen now, with Sherlock and his Asteria. The crowd that had been steadily trickling into the stands were cheering and waving small flags, a mass of noise and color.

Sherlock just smiled and whipped on his helmet, then leaped into the saddle of his dragon in a quick, fluid motion that would have impressed John if he weren't so determined to be irritated. Scowling, John mounted Baldr as well and gave a quick nod to Greg and Molly. He tried to push Sherlock's presence to the back of his mind. He had to focus.

Failing almost immediately, he turned and looked at Sherlock, determination surging through him. "See you on the other side, Holmes."

"Is that a challenge, John?" The smirk wasn't visible due to the helmet, but it was practically audible.

"You're damn right it is." John faced forward, grip tightening on the saddle. Baldr tensed beneath him, anticipation thrumming through them both.

The horn blew again, and they were off.

* * *

 **BTW, thanks SkylarkianSongs - I'd message you if I could and thank you effusively for your multiple reviews of my stuff, but this will have to do - anyway thanks times a gazillion for your kind words! I'm so glad you're enjoying my work so much :D ~ Star**


	3. Dragon Racing

The horn blew again, and they were off, dragons pumping their wings as they launched themselves into the air. The rush of wind past John's ear felt cold and intense and oh so refreshing. Baldr's wing beats below him belied the same strength and excitement John himself was experiencing. As the two of them took to the sky, John let his preoccupation with Sherlock Holmes and his stupid smirk remain behind him on the ground. This, right here and now, was what John Watson was born to do.

To fly.

Well, to ride, technically, but the distinction was practically irrelevant. One of the things that made John such a skilled rider was the way he and Baldr worked together. Some people, watching John even as a youth, had commented on how when they flew together, the rider and dragon appeared to be one.

That was certainly how it felt, especially during races, when the audience and end goal was so palpable and - in the former's case - loud. John and Baldr flew up to the correct altitude, the screams of the spectators fading slightly under the rushing wind. Once they had climbed to the prescribed height, they leveled out and shot forward.

The race course was altered slightly each time, and though it always followed the same sort of format and direction in general, the contestants never knew what to expect specifically. It began and ended at the dragon training enclosure, making a wide loop around the island. Sometimes the course, which was marked by flags on tall poles, deviated from the shore to cross through some of the natural obstacles the island provided. The reptilian-human teams of two had only two objectives: stay within the flags' path - not above or below the altitude and directional marks on them - and to get through the course as quickly as possible. It wasn't called a race for nothing, after all.

Baldr gave a shriek of excitement as they whipped past the first flag, the arrow fluttering on its surface pointing them east. John grinned. They were being shepherded to the woods, which was always a delight. The trees were immense, much taller than the altitude of the flight path, and were populated by dozens of wild dragons. Not overly aggressive creatures but simply untrained to carry humans. However, if the race contestants slowed down too much, a frequent necessity in the dense woods, the smaller wild dragons would shoot out spurts of flame to encourage the intruders to leave the territory that didn't belong to them. These defense mechanisms, though understandable, had resulted in many burns and crashes over the years. None too serious, but a common enough occurrence that any time the race led through the woods, many teams protested.

As if on cue, John heard Molly cry out behind him. "You've got to be kidding me!" She sounded exasperated, and John couldn't help the laugh that slipped past his lips.

"Oh, shut your face, Watson!" she yelled.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. "Love you too, Molls!"

Baldr leaned to the side as the next set of flags turned them farther into the woods, and John leaned with him, enabling the turn to sharpen further. He bit down a whoop of exhilaration and focused on the next bit - the trees in this area were the oldest and tallest, their trunks barely allowing for clearance of a dragon with its wings fully extended.

Time for some creative navigating. And potentially thrilling heroics.

But John and Baldr had done this more times than he could count. Baldr kept his wings close to his body, half-folded in, tilting and twisting and using the wind he created to propel forward. John eased them in and out of curves, avoiding side branches of trees as best he could. Still, they could never avoid a few nicks and scratches. Well, John couldn't; Baldr's scaly hide protected him. They swooped through the trees, weaving left and right, up and down, following the flags and taking advantage of any clearings to flap. Small blasts of flame sometimes shot out from trees, and angry growls from the wild dragons echoed behind them. But John and Baldr ducked them all, feeling the heat but never the burn.

When they burst through the trees into the bright sunlight again, John heard a horn bellow. It was a signal to the villagers, who often scattered throughout the less-dangerous terrain of the race path, that the riders were emerging. John raised his eyes to the open expanse of shore before him. They were first to emerge, in the lead as always. A smug grin spread across this face...

A grin which was abruptly erased as a streak of purple and black suddenly rushed past them. He blinked, and Baldr tensed. It was Sherlock and his dragon, whatever her name was.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," John muttered and he and Baldr launched themselves forward even faster, until they were directly in line with the other team.

Sherlock ignored him, focused on the race path, which was curving again toward the cliffs on the shore. In a quarter of a mile, the headlands stood, battered by waves and wind. Several had tall, narrow arches, which the riders were usually expected to fly through. The thin gap usually made Baldr nervous, a fear resulting from an injury when he was younger attempting the same stunt with John. However, confronted with Sherlock, the scarlet dragon only let out a growl and fearlessly winged his way toward the arches.

"Not unlike the pillars, is it?" Sherlock shouted without warning. "I hope you'll keep in the air this time, Watson."

John would later hate himself for allowing it, but the goading worked. He glanced over and yelled back. "I could say the same to you, Holmes!"

Baldr shrieked and faltered, clearly startled, and John cursed. He righted them, patting Baldr's side. "Sorry." But the correction cost them valuable seconds, and the narrow arches - a row of about a half-dozen - were approaching rapidly. John groaned as Sherlock swept into the arch first, his dragon's sleeker body a javelin as they shot through. John and Baldr rushed through, a tighter fit that always made John clench his teeth.

The next instant, however, as the two teams soared around a curve in the cliff, a massive gust of wind from the west blasted in. John watched in shock as Sherlock's dragon, her wings fully extended at just the wrong moment, was blown backwards. He forced his gaze forward as he and Baldr regained the lead, knowing that Sherlock Holmes and his fearsome dragon were probably on a collision course with the cliffs and then the water.

It was a thought that shouldn't have bothered him, considering his dislike of the other rider. But for some reason, it did.

"Come on, Baldr," he said, ignoring the slight pang of worry in his gut. And they soared away, following the flags back around to the village and the finish line.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't expecting the wind when it hit, and it slammed all the breath from his lungs so he couldn't even cry out. If he had not been strapped onto Asteria so securely, then he surely would have fallen into the ocean. Asteria's wings had been spread, trying to gain the altitude dictated by the upcoming flag, so she was thrown like a sailboat caught on a tidal wave. Pushed backward, the force of the air too much for her slender body, she was as helpless as Sherlock in that moment.

But by some miracle, their trajectory did not prove to be injurious. Only the tip of her wing caught on the headland arch, for barely an instant, but the rest of her body was pushed back through without any impact with stone. Then, safely on the other side of the cliff's curve, she and Sherlock managed to right themselves.

"Are you alright?" Molly's voice carried over. She and her emerald dragon passed them, but Sherlock caught the briefest of glimpses of her wide eyes.

He glanced at Asteria, who was heaving for breath but had fiery determination in her eyes. He smirked, and she seemed to read his mind. Without slowing their continuing momentum caused by the wind, they flipped over in the air, reversing their direction in a massive but quick loop. Straightening into a rod again, Asteria shot past Molly. Sherlock winked at her as they passed, then they were back around the curve again.

The wind was still strong, but manageable now that they were prepared for it. Asteria, always quick to adapt, this time used its gusts to push herself upward over the cliff to the next flag. Clearing the worst of the rough air currents, Sherlock could see the village again. The final obstacle appeared to be a flat area, one he and Asteria had seen the previous week. Black dragons lived underground but weren't afraid to snap out at any intruders.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. John was ahead, a good rider yes, but clearly more relaxed than he should be so close to the end. He obviously was not counting on any close competition, even with Molly within sight had he bothered to look back.

And he obviously was not counting on Sherlock either.

Asteria pushed forward, her streamlined body whipping through and around the air currents as if possessing them. Sherlock bent down as low as he could - the very thing the cocky John Watson was not doing - and they started gaining.

They reached the flats, and the first of the wild dragons shot their necks up, long rippling spurts of orange fire flaring out at them. But Asteria managed to evade them all with either speed or agility. Sherlock only felt a slight singe on his hand, but otherwise the leather protected him. They were nearly there, and Sherlock let himself really believe for the first time since the race had started that they may be able to win. Lovely.

Up ahead, John and Baldr were stopped short as a massive black dragon ripped itself free of its underground home and roared. Baldr did his best to backtrack, but the much larger dragon was simply too domineering.

Before Sherlock could see if the other team managed to extract themselves from the situation, he and Asteria were past them. He grinned, and Asteria gave a happy gurgle.

Enjoy second place, Watson, he gloated silently. And enjoy being taken down off your precious pedestal.

Asteria winged her way over the rooftops, letting loose several puffs of purple-tinged smoke in response to the cheers of the villagers. But to Sherlock's surprise, Baldr pulled up beside them.

"You're aren't the only one with a few acrobatic tricks, Holmes," John Watson looked so smug, but for some reason it didn't grate on Sherlock like he so very wanted it to. In fact, he felt rather impressed. He regretted not seeing how the man had extricated himself and his dragon so quickly, and without more than a single visible injury, a small cut on John's cheek.

The final dash was aggressive. When it came to interacting with the other teams, breathing fire at opponents was strictly forbidden, but nothing else was explicitly mentioned. As long as they weren't cheating, the teams could nip and swipe at each other all they wanted. Barbaric, yes, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care when he nearly received a swipe from the sharp tip of Baldr's wing, and Asteria got so irritated with the neck-and-neck nature of things that she too lashed out. Both teams twisted and rolled through the air, neither willing to concede a second place finish, nor to allow the other to win. Sherlock, for his part, was determined to not let John Watson, proud and entitled John Watson, to not get the lesson in humility he seemed to so desperately need. He barely paid attention to the terrain below them, only focused on the final few flags and the team beside him.

John Watson would not win this race, he vowed as they passed the penultimate flag. Asteria was tense beneath him, obviously in agreement with her rider.

This promise only proved half true, it turned out. Sherlock saw it as Asteria swooped over the finish line and the crowd exploded into screams and wild applause. The sound was deafening, exhilarating, and Sherlock could see why racing here was so popular. It was adrenaline-fueled passionate flight, and he loved it.

And he had tied for first. His first real race and he had tied for first.

For a few moments, as Asteria took a short victory lap over the heads of the spectators, Sherlock let himself bask in the sound and light, for once appreciating the wind and sun and freedom. And he'd won, he reminded himself. John did not have a monopoly on bragging rights anymore. Mission accomplished.

They landed on the platform where they had started to watch the remaining teams finish (Molly coming in second), and Sherlock carefully schooled his expression, though internally he was cheering just as loud as the villagers. He glanced at John as he pulled off his helmet and tried to smooth his messy curls. John was glaring daggers, and Sherlock was certain that had the man been a dragon, rings of smoke would be billowing out of his nose. He looked ready and willing to scream.

Well, this would be interesting.

* * *

 **Now I know how JK Rowling felt writing all those Quidditch games. It's a strange and difficult experience.**


End file.
